


Snow Flakes Melting In The Fire

by Poetiicdissonance



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - no three-way duel, Ariana Dumbledore Lives, Christmas Dinner, Family Dinners, Grindeldore Holiday Exchange, Grindeldore Holiday Exchange 2020, Holidays, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, The greater good, but not explicitly so, or entirely historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28878555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poetiicdissonance/pseuds/Poetiicdissonance
Summary: Family does not always mean unquestioning acceptance, or even love. But that doesn't mean that love, and family can't be found elsewhere with people who do care. Or: How Albus Dumbeldore meets Gellert's parents.
Relationships: Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald, Bathilda Bagshot & Albus Dumbledore, Bathilda Bagshot & Gellert Grindelwald
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20
Collections: Grindeldore Holiday Exchange 2020





	Snow Flakes Melting In The Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AlbusGellertAlways](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlbusGellertAlways/gifts).



> Happy holidays everyone! Well I suppose it's technically a bit late, but it's still for the holiday gift exchange, so I'll say it anyways. 
> 
> I apologize that this isn't nearly as fluffy as I had intended for it to be, but I do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> I don't think any of the German here is terribly hard ir confusing, but a few quick translation notes anyways:  
> Ja - yes  
> Muuter - mother  
> Vater - father  
> tante - aunt  
> Zaubereiministerium - the closest thing I could find for what they would call the German Ministry for Magic.  
> Liebling - Darling. Yay for terms of endearment. Are we still using this as a fandom? I no longer know, but it is, and will forever be the thing I think when I think this ship, so that what y'all get.

Late December in Godric’s Hollow had never been constantly and properly cold, there were cold phases of course, when it would snow, and the ground would be peppered in the thin layer of white, where small flurries of flakes would dampen the floor inside the doorway, dragged in by the movement of their cloaks. The sun had gone down hours ago, the first stars long since appeared in the night sky. It was the longest night of the year, the solstice-- and Bathilda had generously offered to let Aberforth and Ariana stay with her for a night, so he and Gellert could have some time alone. 

Gellert had been distracted for most of the day, eyes flickering to the clock, and to the letter that Bathilda had pressed into his hands when they’d seen her earlier. She had looked at him sympathetically, and that alone was concerning, but Gellert had brushed off his concern when they’d first gotten back home. Albus hadn’t wanted to press, not when Gellert was already annoyed having to play nice with Aberforth, home for his holidays. 

Had Aberforth been any more stubborn, and had Ariana not taken quite so strongly to Gellert, Albus rather suspects that he wouldn't be celebrating the holiday season like this, but until the end of the year, they were still in Godric’s Hollow, just until Aberforth graduated, and they could leave on their hunt for the Hallows.

They’d run out of books about them; had read, and reread Bathilda’s library, then gone on day trips to Diagon Alley in order to find even more. That alone had expanded their reading by over a month, but even then most of it had led to dead ends that were half a century old, if not longer. Now, they were mostly working on filling in as many gaps as they could, making the most comprehensive timeline, and perfecting The Greater Good.

Nevertheless, Albus was determined to take joy in tonight. They had a small roast, and a pot of potatoes, and some rather sad greens that Albus had had to find a recipe for in Bathilda’s library, not that they had turned out incredibly well, but it had only seemed right to  _ try _ . But now, Albus sat next to Gellert in the sitting room, a cup of tea held loosely in his grip “Gellert-” Albus started, looking over towards Gellert who had, in the wake of the quiet affection of dinner returned to his rather melancholy mood. 

Gellert startled, looking at Albus like he hadn’t quite expected the immediate address. 

“You’ve been distracted, is everything alright?” 

Gellert paused, and smiled at Albus, who only pursed his lips, and looked at Geller over the rim of his glasses. 

“Ja, of course, Liebling.” Gellert says, the term of endearment falling easily, and Albus can’t help the slight smile every time he heard it, even if now it felt more perfunctory than anything, a distraction from the larger problem.

“The letter you received…” Albus says instead, pulling the conversation back to the topic at hand. 

Gellert lets out a sigh, and takes a sip of his own tea. It didn't take brilliance and experience to see that he was trying to avoid the question, or at least formulate a better answer for whatever was plaguing him. “My parents,” he starts, and it’s enough to make Albus lower his cup to rest on his knee. “They said they're coming here to see Tante Bathilda and I for the holidays. They’ll be here on Christmas Eve.” he says, and Albus can't help letting out a knowing hum.

Gellert had rarely mentored his parents as long as Albus had known him, and the few times he had it had never been… kind. There were issues there Albus assumed, that Gellert hadn’t wanted to deal with, and Albus could understand difficulty with family. Gellert’s family were old purebloods, that had been shamed that their son had been expelled, and sent him to live with his great aunt rather than staying in Germany, even if Albus was grateful for the turn of events, it seemed a loveless choice to make.

“See  _ us, _ I rather suppose.” Albus says, reaching out a hand to grasp Gellert’s, turning to look at his lover with a smile. “We are to be great, and the world will know of us, this is but a small misstep.” Albus reassures. It is, perhaps, a nice dream for what is still months away; they can’t leave until the year is out and Aberforth can take care of Ariana full time, a task for which he’d already said he would, even without his seventh year, but Albus had insisted. He and his brother may not have seen eye to eye, but he wouldn’t let Aberforth sacrifice his last year at Hogwarts to come take care of Ariana. No, Albus would take care of her for the last year before pursuing The Greater Good.

Gellert’s own expression lightens, and he squeezes Albus’ hand softly. “Ja, you're right. You wouldn’t let me do this alone would you?”

Albus shakes his head, and takes another sip from his tea, the pleasing warmth spreading through his body. The tense aura hadn’t evaporated, but it had lessened, bleeding out into the cold night air. 

* * *

Christmas Eve dawns in the chill cold of midwinter, the air frozen and still when Albus looks through the windows, the frost crawling up the glass in swooping swirls, and the milk-white pastels of the sunrise painting the edges of the horizon. The sky is somewhere between the color of smoke and pearls, and Albus leans into the arms that wrap around his waist from behind, the warm body behind him pressing a soft kiss into his neck. It’s a tired sort of affection, more from the ability to be able to do so than anything else. 

Gellert’s parents are going to arrive tonight, and Aberforth had already agreed to make dinner for him and Ariana. The agreement hadn’t been hard to come by, and Albus is fairly certain that Aberforth honestly preferred to have him and Gellert out of the house for a night. 

“Good morning.” Albus says, his long hair loose around his shoulders, spilling into the very edges of Gellert’s golden curls out of the corner of his eye. 

Gellert makes a humming noise, and Albus suspects that he too, is looking out over the morning with some reservations. 

“Dinner will be fine tonight.” He says, half to convince Gellet, and half to convince himself of his convictions. 

* * *

Bathilda’s house is welcoming, and the air smells of the spices on the turkey that had been cooking for most of the day, the same ones that had decorated the potatoes, and the other foods of the night. She is sitting at the table laughing at something Gellert is saying, as Albus sets the last plate onto the table. 

He was endlessly grateful for Bathilda’s unquestioning acceptance of the two of them-- she had known that there was more to them before anyone else did, the sparkle in her eyes, and the certainty she had had when she had introduced them half a year ago made Albus think she’d rather expected for  _ something _ to happen even then.

Gellert’s parents arrive by floo, the room flashing green, and then again seconds later. Albus would think it interesting how quickly the companionable atmosphere of the room had vanished if he too, didn’t feel suddenly out of place in the homey feel of Bathilda’s dining room. 

The first thing he notices about them is that Gellert looks like his mother; his sharp features, the high cheekbones, the golden curls had all come from her, though while he had looked angelic and blessed by some muggle deity, she looked human. The gold in her hair has faded, and wisps of grey decorated it. She looked like the purebloods that Albus had always gone to school with, old and powerful, and, he assumed, smarter than her husband: an ageing man where you could still see what must once have been incredibly handsome, but where Gellert’s mother had sharp features, his were far more squared, a defined jaw, and hard set to his mouth, nothing at all like the intelligent half-smiles Gellert favoured. His hair was greying at the temples, and if Albus had to guess, he had played quidditch in his youth.

His mother nodded at Bathilda, running a hand down the front of her robes, the wandless spell clearing away the lingering pieces of ash that clung to them. It was a beautifully subtle piece of magic, and one that Albus had to respect. Those sorts of spells took time to learn, and even longer to perfect without wands.

“Hello Bathilda, it’s been so long.” She says, and inclines a head towards her. 

“Lydia, how nice to see you again.” Bathilda says in return, and extends a hand to gesture at the seats. “Please, sit down, what is this time of the year for other than family?” She asks, and Albus finds himself once again, thanking her unquestioning acceptance of him and Gellert, and his place as some accepted family.

“This is Albus Dumbledore,” she adds, and Albus inclines his head in greeting, reaching out a hand to shake, stepping back once the introduction has been made.

“Mutter, vater.” Gellert says, as they sit down across from him. It didn't take a genius to see the awkwardness in the actions. Perfunctory greetings, devoid of the expected affections-- they were a formal thing, stilted in a way that Albus was trying to reconcile with the brilliant revolutionary of a boy that he knew and loved. Parents were… hard to deal with at the best of times he supposed.

Quietly, he takes his own place at the table, slipping into his seat beside Gellert, reaching out a hand to grasp his under the table, the long table cloth hiding the supportive way he twined their fingers together. 

“Gellert. I hope you’re well.” His mother says, and that too, feels like something rehearsed. It doesn’t feel like a mother to the son she hadn’t seen in months and hadn’t spoken to in just as long. For as long as Albus had known Gellert, there had never been a letter addressed to him from his parents. He’d arrived in Godric's Hollow like a ghost, between one day and the next. Bathilda had told him in the market the day before his arrival that her great nephew was coming to stay, and the next day the man himself had arrived, charming and self-assured, and absolutely stunning. 

Elphias might have called it something romantic like fate or destiny, but Albus was fairly certain it was just a fortunate meeting of kindred spirits.

“Ja, mutter. Tante Bathilda has been very good to have me.” Gellert says, and it brings Albus out of his lapsed thoughts of their first meeting. They’d been in this room six months ago, before retreating to Bathilda’s library where they'd spent hours, until long after the tea they had had grown cold, hardly touched, heads bent towards books, lost in conversation.

“Well that’s good.” Gellert’s mother, Lydia, says, folding her hands together primly on the tablecloth, the lacey, embroidered flowers spelled to be spill resistant shifting slightly beneath her hands.

Beside her, Gellert’s father sat down, looking just as out of place as his wife in the dining room. “Been staying out of trouble? We don’t want a  **repeat** of what happened at the school after all.” He says, and Albus can feel the minute way that Gellert stiffens beside him. He wasn’t entirely certain what had happened to end in Gellert’s expulsion from Durmstrang, but the dismissive tone feels disingenuous, like it was some petty trifle instead of some rather dark magic. 

“Konstantin,” Bathilda says, her genial smiling dropping slightly. “It’s the holidays, I’m sure there’s better topics of conversation.” The tone is final, the sort of one that reminds Albus of Professor Merrythought who had started teaching Defence Against The Dark Arts between his third and fourth years. It’s one that brokers no argument or questions.

Konstantin makes a displeased hum, but doesn't say anything further, and the silence around the table returns. Distractedly, Albus runs his thumb along the side of Gellert’s palm, his other hand in his lap, playing with the fabric of his trousers for the sake of having something to do with his hands.

“Time for dinner?” Bathilda’s voice breaks the silence, and the table all turns to look at her. It feels like an attempt to help alleviate some of the tension, not that Albus is convinced that that  _ can _ happen, but better an attempt than to have all of them continue to sit in silence.

Both Gellert and his father nod, neither of them looking enthused to be here, and there’s no small part of Albus that wonders why Konstantin and Lydia bothered to come at all. Expectation perhaps, or the lingering sense of parental responsibility, not that he can guess that they had ever been the most loving, or present of parents.

“Yes, of course,” Lydia says.

“I’ll help.” Albus says, the first thing he’s said since Lydia and Konstantin arrived. It feels a little bit like a retreat, but then again, bringing the attention to him also seems like a less than brilliant choice.

“No, no, no. Not after all the work you did to help make it.” Bathilda protests, waving a hand at him to sit back down.

“I really didn't do much, I mostly just helped to cut potatoes.”

“That’s more than Gellert did.” and it’s enough to make Gellert look at the two of them with a slight laugh. 

“Tante, I do hope you’re not suggesting that  _ I _ help to cook.”

Bathilda shakes her head, and steps towards the kitchen. “I have never seen someone ruin tea before you, dear.” She says, vanishing into the kitchen. There’s the sound of scraping cutlery in the kitchen, before she emerges, a minute later, trays of food floating behind her, the bowl of potatoes, and turkey all settling themselves with a soft thump on the table. 

“Konstantin, would you do the honours of carving the turkey?”

He blinks, but accepts the knife she offers. 

They all watch the strips of turkey meat fall away with rapt attention, the meat collecting at the bottom of the dish. 

“So Lydia, how have you been?” Bathilda asks, in an attempt to start the conversation that it’s clear no one else will.

“Well, the Zaubereiministerium has been busy with a new string of pureblood concerns.” 

“There are always pureblood concerns,” Gellert says dryly. “And they are never actually focused on what’s important.”

Lydia’s expression pinches, and she looks at Gellert with a displeased expression. “And how would you know?”

“Because they never seem to change country to country.” 

“And you think the troubles are small?” Gellert looks at his mother, a slight upturn in the corners of his mouth, and Albus can't help but feel like the conversation has taken an unexpected turn. He looks over to Bathilda who’s keeping a cautious eye on the conversation, but hasn’t said anything.

“They’re repetitive, coming up and up again without any change.” Gellert runs a hand through his hair, pushing the golden strands back away from his face, eyes alight with something darker than mirth.

“And yet it is those very concerns that have brought us to where we are.” Lydia says, and Albus can see the frown, so much like Gellert’s is when he’s distracted and lost in thought. It’s not the look of someone losing an argument that sways more towards anger, but it is the one of someone who realizes that they’re not going to get a quiet acquiescence to their points.

“Cowering behind the Statute for Secrecy?” And this Gellert says with a sharpness befitting the situation. It reminds Albus of their earliest conversations, when they had leaned more towards the philosophical and the political and they had not yet come up with The Greater Good. Before Gellert had properly met Ariana, and before they had been anything more than acquaintances turned friends. =

“ **_Safe_ ** .”

“This isn’t  **safe** , mutter. The muggles are weak, we have the opportunity for better, and yet we hide.” Albus thinks of Ariana, sweet and harmless, except for the moments when her magic bubbles over because she can’t control it, or the fact that it hadn’t been her fault in the first place. They hid her for fear of what would happen if the muggles found out yes, but more for what would have happened if the rest of the wizarding world were to.

His father had died in Azkaban because of the cruelty of muggles, and their hiding had never given them anything more than dark corners and hidden worlds half a step to the left of reality. This wasn’t freedom, and it wasn’t safe, it was just hidden beyond the prying eyes of people who didn’t see, and still didn’t want to see.

“And you would what? Seek to take power?” Konstantin says, in the same dismissive way he’d talked about Gellert’s expulsion. 

Gellert tilts his head to look at his father. “Why not?”. Albus can see Bathilda preparing to say something before stopping. He knows she thinks they’re too ambitious, too set on the idea of a future, too consumed by the ideas of power and control, but he also knows that she’s seen what has become of Ariana, and the unquestioning, unyielding view of the Ministry. 

“Because you are a fool to think that you could possibly know better than the wizarding world at large.” Konstantin says, a look in his expression verging on something akin to loathing. It’s a look Albus had seen on the other quidditch players faces when they’d been shown up by anyone from a different house, the same twitch of a man trying desperately to look more in control of a situation than he was. It’s an ability that Albus has learned that Gellertt excels in, he’s incredible at slowly loosening any mooring your argument had, and until the vestiges of it drain through your fingers like silk or sand.

“At least I dream of a world which is better for us--  _ all _ of us.” Gellert says, and Albus can't help the slight smile. Once, months ago, Gellert had been even more possessed by anger than he was now. Had been more obsessed by the idea of control and power and less by the idea of helping people. The Greater Good had been formed of two pillars: control and betterment, and they had been formed by  _ both _ of them in tandem. It's a subtle thing. Albus knows, and had he not known what it had been like before he would never have guessed it now, but this was tangible proof of the way they had influenced each other to new heights of greatness. 

“For what? People like you?” There is something in the way Konstanin says that, that isn't dismissive or loathing of his son, but said with some sense of prejudice and contempt that goes deeper than blood purity, or magic. Albus doesn't understand the importance of it, but Gellert’s expression tells him enough. 

“Just because the school didn't expel you for your… unnatural proclivities when they still thought you could be saved doesn't make them acceptable. What else is he then?” At this, Konstantin looks at Albus, though looks  _ through _ him feels like the more accurate description. He’s not seeing Albus, so much as he is seeing the fact that he's a man, and the subtle ways that he and Gellert interact companionably, and the fact that he’s here at all. It’s a ‘family’ dinner, in what feels titular only-- the only thing connecting the people around the table seems to be a shared blood and a shared surname. No love, and even fewer shared experiences.

“You brought a man to dinner, for the first time we’ve seen you in months-” Gellert laughs, cutting off his father, a sharp, biting sound that feels less like laughter, and more like a release of an emotion that bubbles under his ribs, disbelieving and angry.

It’s strange. They’ve been together for six months, and even Aberforth, who hated Gellert, had never made much mention of the fact that they were both men, and Albus can’t help the twitch in his fingers at that. He’s about to stand up when Gellert cuts in, voice steady and cold. 

“He’s smarter than you will ever be, and I love him.” Albus lets out an exhale at that. There are no modifiers, or excuses, it’s there and plain. He knows Gellert love him, that much had never been in question-- they gave each other strength and understanding neither of them had ever had before but still, it’s breathtaking to see the truth of it hanging in the air. 

Konstantin lets out a scoff. “Love? From you? You’ve never loved anyone but yourself.”

“I love him.” Gellert says, and grabs Albus’ hand. Albus squeezes it, the slight tremors obvious in the unconscious shakes of Gellert’s hand. It’s at odds with the confident front he’s showing to his parents, and Albus can understand the nervousness, and the almost insidious way it can creep into a facade, no matter how certain you can be of its strength. He’s almost glad that Gellert trusts him enough to show him this part of him, even if he hates that it has to be a question at all.

This time, it’s Lydia that speaks, looking almost pensive. More collected now than she had been in the few minutes of the conversation. “You have only ever loved power.” She says it, with the sort of certainty that is needed to talk in front of a room of wizards, and not over the floral tablecloth at a holiday dinner. The judgement is clear, and it doesn’t feel like a woman talking to her son, but a minister talking to the gathered assembly.

“And Albus gives me that in spades.”

This is not to say, Albus thinks, that Gellert has not given him strength on more days than not. On days when Ariana awoke screaming and terrified and needed to be gently lulled back to sleep, and Gellert would volunteer. Or on days when Aberforth sent home letters full of endless criticism of what Albus would certainly be doing wrong, that would end with Gellert bringing him down to the river where they could spend the night lost in each other. And then there were the smaller moments; when they were reading and the world was allowed to be quiet and comforting, or the late nights where they would fall asleep next to each other on the bed, talking until the drowsy conversation pattered off with the rain. The strength is more than magical, Albus knows, because if it were only that, they wouldn’t still be here, poised to take over the world, on the cusp of something greater- but they are.

“Your son is the most brilliant man I’ve ever met.” The other members of the table all turn to look at him, surprised by the fact that he had deigned to speak in the craterous silence of the declaration. 

“He’s charming, and revolutionary,” and it does not matter that he is barely an adult, skirting the line by months because he’s more aware of wizarding politics than most people Albus has ever met, he thinks, but does not say. Gellert has a better understanding of the world then most wizards Albus has ever met, and it had been so clear within minutes of meeting each other.

“And I am honoured to get to meet him, honoured that I get to watch him think of ways to change the world.” Albus adds, settling into the words. It’s different from defending Gellert to his brother, and different than writing carefully worded letters to Elphias, who Albus knows would accept him, but can never quite get rid of the small part of him that thinks his best friend couldn't. This wasn’t someone that would never matter, these were Gellert’s parents, and yet, sitting in Bathilda’s dining room, Albus doesn't know if he's ever felt more certain of their relationship.

“Gellert is going to be the face of the Greater Good, and the whole world will know his name.” He finishes, and Konstantin and Lydia both look pale faced and shocked. Gellert can’t help the fond look in his eyes as he looks at Albus. There's something too, in Bathilda's expression that Albus doesn't know how to place, her own knowing smile reminiscent of one Albus had seen a thousand times since she had introduced the two of them. 

For a minute, the room seems to echo hollowly in the deafening silence. Only the sounds of the wind outside, and the merrily burning fireplace, the only thing Albus thinks, that is happy to be present, are heard.

Konstantin pushes his chair back from the table, the motion sudden and jarring, his wife standing up with him. “I do believe we’ve seen quite enough.” Lydia says, expression pulled down into something neutrally polite, collected and impersonal. “Bathilda, thank you for having us. Gellert, I bid you well.” she says, and then they turn, and vanish in twin puffs of green smoke, leaving Albus, Gellert, and Bathilda in the dining room, staring at the empty half of the table.

“Well then…” Bathilda says, bringing her hands up to rest on the table. The food, still warm, sits undisturbed on the table between the three of them. “That went… worse than I was expecting.”

Gellert brings up a hand to rest his chin on, looking exhausted, and disguising it as bored. “Honestly, I think it went as well as I could have hoped for.”

Albus pushes his flyaway hair back behind his ear, the adrenaline starting to wear off, leaving him feeling drained. “Your parents are…” Albus says, and trails off, 

“Awful, liebling. There’s a reason I haven’t spoken to them.” Gellert says, reaching across the table and dropping a piece of meat onto his plate, before jabbing at it, rather angrily with his fork. Albus lets out a long breath, the sigh somewhat shaky, and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“Yes, well, I didn't expect that.” Albus says and stands, pressing a kiss to Gellert’s hair. 

“I’m going to make tea, I think we could use it.” He says, stepping past Bathilda to the kitchen, grabbing the familiar pot and cups. The process is one that Albus has done a hundred thousand times, and the motions are calming. In the dining room, he can hear the hushed sounds of conversation between Gellert and Bathilda. 

When he comes back to the dining room, settling the cups down in front of all of them, the conversation settles into something light, none of them bringing up the obvious topic. None of them are very hungry, but by the end of the night, they’ve all made it through another two cups of tea, and some of the food, with promises that they, Aberforth, and Ariana will come back tomorrow for Christmas proper. 

* * *

They wake up early on Christmas day, to the sounds of Aberforth and Ariana in the living room below, and Albus can’t help but smile tiredly at Gellert, the two of them facing each other in the bed. 

“Good morning, liebling.” 

It’s only later that afternoon, when Aberforth is outside tending to his goats, and Ariana is half asleep against Gellert’s shoulder listening to him reading The Tale of the Three Brothers aloud, while Albus writes down a handful of points of comparison between that, and a journal account of the elder wand beside him, that he realizes that this is his family. This small, broken, collection of blood and love is his family, and he smiles at Gellert who catches his eye, and returns it, before he continues his reading. 


End file.
